


A Truce

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Tumblr Prompt, secret dating au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22823671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: It’s been a secret for a few weeks now. Far longer than Feyre or Rhys thought they’d be able to pull off. Feyre has no idea how Mor hasn’t caught them yet, how she hasn’t managed to walk in on them, or catch Rhys sneaking in and out of the apartment at odd hours.Pure luck, Feyre supposed.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 9
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 12\. Sneaking away to a hidden corner to share a secretive kiss.
> 
> So, we got a little off prompt, but I think it holds true to the feeling of it. Enjoy some fluff. And a Drunken Feyre.

**The party was in full swing.**

The end of the semester had come at last. Their little circle of friends celebrated it every time the last day of classes rolled around. They also marked the first day. And the middle of the week. And the end of it. Or when someone got a date. Or when someone got stood up. But who was counting?

Feyre smiled to herself. She’d submitted her last paper last night, and her portfolio presented this morning. The criticisms were reasonable, and the bad ones expected. Grades would be up by the end of the week.

And now their Inner Circle— The name bestowed upon them by a tipsy Rhys one warm Summer day a year ago, voice filled with grandeur and a twinkle in his eyes— was drinking.

“It’s all in the Mother’s hands now,” Cassian declares to the group, taking an indulgent swallow of his beer.

Mor sneers at his antics, playing at disgusted, but if anyone is willing to go all out with Cassian, it’s Mor. Feyre giggles at the two of them, feeling very light and happy this evening, holding her glass of wine.

“Are you drunk, darling?”

Feyre shivers at the sound of his deep, smooth voice. He’d only just arrived, and Feyre was working very hard to convince her drunk mind from looking too excited at his arrival. That would be out of place for Feyre. Even Drunk Feyre.

Rhys laughs into the skin of her neck, taunting and teasing, and the sound causes her skin to break out into gooseflesh. She hopes no one notices, relying on the alcohol to dull her intuitive friends’ senses.

“Rhys,” Azriel pleads softly, the most gentle drunk of them all.

“Don’t upset her,” he continues. He points his beer bottle at his friend, his brother, intimidatingly. “We’re having a good night.”

“Fear not,” Rhys muses, subtly trailing one finger down Feyre’s exposed spine. She’d opted for a backless shirt tonight and was both loving and hating the results. “I plan to be on my best behavior.”

“Too bad that’s usually not enough,” Mor complains. She gestures at Feyre wildly, and Feyre smiles innocently. “Look how happy she is! Don’t take away her joy!”

“I’ll have you know,” Rhys purrs, drawing away from Feyre’s back, much to her disappointment, “that I always aim to bring Feyre joy. In everything I do.”

Rhys is telling the truth, of course. There isn’t an ounce of sarcasm in that statement. Not that any of their friends would know to look for it; Feyre finds herself burning all of a sudden to spill her guts to her friends. 

It’s been a secret for a few weeks now. Far longer than Feyre or Rhys thought they’d be able to pull off. Feyre has no idea how Mor hasn’t caught them yet, how she hasn’t managed to walk in on them, or catch Rhys sneaking in and out of the apartment at odd hours.

Pure luck, Feyre supposed.

“Whatever, Prick,” Mor rolls her eyes, too drunk to see the honesty in her cousin’s words. “Call a truce.”

Laughter bubbles out of Feyre as Mor uses her nickname for Rhys. The blonde has no idea that the moniker doesn’t hold the heat that it used to.

“I will if Feyre will,” Rhys sends Feyre a knowing smile. Pleased. “What do you say, Feyre Darling?”

It must be the drink that makes their friends excuse the way Feyre bites her lip. Her skin flashes with heat, and Feyre’s mind goes a little hazy as she recalls a truce they called a different night. In a very different situation.

The party continues. Pizza gets ordered, and Amren arrives fashionably late with a man strung on her arm that the gang has never met before. His name is Varian, and Cassian has a lot of questions. 

Feyre drinks. And laughs. And shares secret smiles with her secret boyfriend.

Yet, the longer the party lasts, and the longer her friends linger in her apartment, the more Feyre burns with the desire to crawl into Rhys’s lap and kiss that smug smile right off his face. She knows he’s noticed her watching him, and Feyre can see the way that Rhys preens under her gaze.

Her boyfriend looks good tonight, dressed in his deep navy sweater. It’s her favorite color on him; Feyre likes the way it brings out his eyes. A shame that Rhys prefers to dress in black. She’ll need to work on that.

“Oops, filled it up too much.” Mor doesn’t sound the least bit sorry as she refills Feyre’s glass. Both women giggle, and the men and Amren share a look. Mor and Feyre get wine drunk frequently. What Rhys and Cassian and Amren don’t know is that Azriel often joins them.

He’s even funnier with wine.

Feyre knows she should stop drinking. Else, the truth will burst from her lungs at any moment. Rhys has made a point not to talk to her, participating in the truce they’ve pretended to call. It’s silly, but Feyre hates it. She doesn’t like that she’s unincluded in his jokes, doesn’t like that she can’t curl into his side, and have Rhys hold her close.

In a split-second decision, Feyre announces to the room that she’s going to get some air. Cassian is the first on his feet, intent on keeping her safe, but Feyre waves him off.

“I’m just going to go to the balcony,” she says. Leaves.

It isn’t that Feyre is ashamed to admit to her friends that she and Rhys are dating, but rather, Feyre likes have this little bit of time to herself—alone with him. And without their reckless teasing.

Once the Inner Circle does find out, and they will, there will no end to the teasing. No chance for mercy.

A pair of hands latch onto her waist as Feyre crosses the threshold to her bedroom, towards her balcony. Feyre squeals, drunk and surprised. Yet, she sighs, as Rhys’s mouth presses down onto the skin of her neck. Feyre leans against him happily, absorbing the feeling of him against her back and his arms around her waist.

She’s been dying for his affection all night.

“I’ve been waiting to do that all night,” Rhys echoes her exact thoughts. A shudder goes through Feyre, visible to Rhys in his nearness. His laugh is soft, and he turns her around, guiding her by the waist to the bed.

Feyre giggles for what must be the thousandth time that night.

“Just how drunk are you, darling?” Her boyfriend asks, concern for her wellbeing overriding his desire for her. She thinks she could love him.

Feyre grins and holds up two fingers in a gesture. “This much.”

Rhys’s laugh rumbles through his chest.

“I like Drunk Feyre,” he confesses just as her knees hit the bed. 

This is way better than the balcony, Feyre thinks. Much better. 

“She laughs a lot,” Rhys continues, easing them towards the mattress. “I like it when you laugh.”

“Me, too,” Feyre agrees, lowering herself. Rhys crawls after her and settles himself atop her body. She hums, tugging his face close to hers for a kiss.

They lay there for a time, sharing a lazy kiss. Feyre sighs contentedly, laces her fingers in his hair.

“A few things make a lot more sense now,” Amren says from the bedroom door.

Feyre jumps and nearly smacks her head into Rhys’s. Her boyfriend just groans, displeased at being interrupted.

“A few?” Feyre asks, ignoring the breathless quality to her voice. Rhys mumbles his complaints into the crook of her neck where he’s pressed his face.

Amren clicks her tongue, thoughtfully. 

“That one has been singing,” she says like the act of singing is some criminal offense. “All of the time.”

Rhys growls. Feyre giggles. And Amren watches them with thinly veiled interest.

“And you two have been far too civil in one other’s presence as of late. Now it makes sense.”

“We’d be even more civil to each other if you’d go away,” Rhys says suggestively, and Feyre laughs more, still a little drunk. The annoyance in his eyes fades into a smile.

“Are you going to tell on us?” Feyre asks. Rhys goes still beside her, but Feyre keeps her gaze on Amren.

“That would imply that I care,” the other woman drawls, leaving the area.

The couple lays in the bed in silence for a time, and Feyre is all too happy to snuggle into her boyfriend’s embrace. Yet, she pouts when Rhys doesn’t react as warmly as he usually does to the cuddling, doesn’t squeeze her in his arms, and tuck her head under his chin.

When Feyre looks into his eyes, she finds Rhys’s expression dim. Withdrawn.

“What’s wrong?” Feyre asks, suddenly very, very concerned.

The look on her boyfriend’s face tells Feyre that he’s about to play off his concerns, play it cool, and avoid upsetting her. So, Feyre stops him, interrupts his shrug off with, “Rhys, what is it?”

His sighs, turning those blue eyes on her, remorsefully. “Would it be such a terrible thing, Feyre?”

Feyre’s mind is just fuzzy enough to be confused, although the turn of events is quickly clearing it. “What?”

“For our friends to know. About us,” Rhys looks afraid to know the answer, and Feyre’s heart clenches at the realization that he thinks she wants to hide him.

“Of course, not.” Feyre kisses his jaw, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Rhys looks unsure. “But you asked Amren—“

“I nearly told them all earlier,” Feyre interrupts with another kiss— to the cheek this time. “Or rather show. I guessed they’d figure it out when I sat in your lap and started making out with you.”

She pauses thinking. “Or they would have quarantined me. Put the very drunk girl to bed, more like.”

Rhys’s laugh is surprised. “And why didn’t you?”

“Because I was afraid you’d be upset.” Another kiss. To the corner of his mouth. “Next time, I’ll make out with you in front of all our friends— if you want.”

Feyre’s secret boyfriend smiles wide and pulls her in for a long gentle kiss. 

“Next time, darling, I’d like that very much.”

So, Feyre does.

Tonight’s celebration is for Mor. The girl she likes agreed to a coffee date, and now the Inner Circle is determined to give her a hangover for it. They’re proving somewhat successful.

Afterward, Feyre thinks it’s the first time she’s ever seen her friends so quiet. Even sneaking, knowing Azriel goes pale with surprise, and he always knows everything before everyone else. It fills Feyre with pride.

Amren is the only one of them grinning. It’s more of a grimace.

“I’d rather the two of you kept that to yourselves.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prequel.

**Feyre opens the door with a sneer.** The anger in her eyes sends a thrill through Rhys. She’s positively stunning when she’s mad; Rhys lives to piss her off, get Feyre hissing and spitting. He often thinks that he’d like to see what that feisty energy was like in the bedroom.

Woah, Rhys thinks. He has to reel his spiraling thoughts back in. That’s been happening more and more lately, which is just asking for trouble. Feyre hates him. There’s no way in hell Mor’s roommate is ever going to sleep with him.

Besides, a dark, quiet part of Rhys knows he wants more than a quick fuck from Feyre.

“What do you want?” Feyre hisses. Good, this Rhys knows how to deal with. His hackles raise.

“Certainly not you, darling,” Rhys purrs. The biggest lie of his life, he thinks, but Feyre doesn’t need to know that.

“Mor isn’t here,” Feyre tells him, “and I’m too busy to deal with you right now.”

Rhys puts his hands in his pockets. This is what he gets for not texting first. The man makes a show of drinking in her appearance; Feyre looks frazzled, hair pulled back, and apron thrown on over her clothes.

“Are you _cooking_?” Rhys’s surprise is evident in his voice. She can’t blame him; Feyre is notoriously a lousy cook. She’s banned from making the popcorn on movie nights because she always burns it.

On cue, the distinct smell of smoke wafts towards them.

“Shit!” Feyre swears, rushing for the kitchen. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit!”

Rhys can’t help his smile. He trails after her into the kitchen, watching as she pulls out a tray of very burnt heart-shaped cookies. There a few dozen more on the counter, also in less than stellar condition.

“Does Mor know you’re cooking without adult supervision?” Rhys asks the woman, leaning against the counter.

Feyre shoots an angry glare his way, and he smirks. “Fuck off! I wouldn’t have burnt them if you hadn’t distracted me.”

The state of the cookies tells Rhys that they were a lost cause long before he knocked. But it’s the other thing that his attention snags on. His smile is feline.

“I didn’t know you found me so distracting, Feyre darling.”

She scoffs. “That is not my name—stop calling me that.”

“Feyre?” Rhys purrs. “Then what should I call you?” He tilts his head to the side in thought, “Vixen? Enchantress? I’m still pretty fond of Darling.”

Feyre drops the tray of cookies with a clatter, spinning on her heels to face him. “Will you just _leave me alone!”_

Rhys is taken aback by the fury in her voice. His face falls at the sight of her tears; Rhys didn’t mean to make Feyre _cry_.

“Feyre,” he says, voice soft. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter?” Her laugh is bitter. “You mean besides fucking up all these cookies? Besides not having the money to just _buy_ Valentine’s Day gifts for our friends? Besides having you be a jerk all of the time?”

Rhys’s heart falls at the last line. “Feyre, I don’t mean to upset you. I—if I knew it really bothered you, I’d never—”

“Just—don’t, okay?” Feyre sniffs, turning away from him so Rhys can’t see her tears. “Just go away, Rhys. I’ve got this under control.”

Rhys should leave, should leave her be and let her get on with her evening. Yet, the thought of leaving Feyre alone and upset is unbearable. Rhys shrugs off his jacket and begins to roll up his sleeves.

Feyre watches him warily. “What are you doing?”

“They’re just a sugar cookie, right?” Rhys says, eyeing the cookbook Feyre has open on the counter. It’s covered in flour and fingerprints of dough. “That’s easy enough.”

Feyre scoffs. “Don’t be an ass.”

Rhys sighs, holding his hands out in supplication. “I’m not trying to be. I’m trying to help. So, we’re making little heart-shaped Valentine’s cookies?”

“Uh, yeah. I was,” Feyre stutters. Rhys flashes her his best smile.

“Great! You’re in charge of reading the recipe out to me.” When Feyre hesitates, Rhys raises a brow in a challenge, “You think you can handle that?”

“Fuck you,” Feyre tells him in a savage voice. Rhys laughs.

-

“Where did you learn to do this?” Feyre asks him as Rhys prepares the frosting for the cookies. Feyre was very particular about the colors, and she’s leaning close to his side to peer into the bowl and supervise his mixing.

“Um, my mother was quite the baker,” Rhys tells her, fighting off the sadness. “She—”

“That’s good,” Feyre interrupts, and Rhys chuckles at her, ignoring the flash of something that hits him when she grabs his hand to stop him from adding food coloring.

He clears his throat. “Uh, my mom used to get very into baking for the holidays. I liked to help her if only to steal the freshly frosted cookies.”

“Vulture,” she calls him when Rhys sticks his finger into the frosting to emphasize his point.

They both grin at each other, and Rhys thinks he could get very used to this civility.

“Let’s frost, shall we?” He says, and Feyre flashes him an excited smile.

-

Feyre is meticulous in her cookie decorating, and Rhys is not surprised to find out that she’s actually very good at this part. The artist in her comes out, and Feyre spends the next hour bent over the cookies, creating intricate patterns with the pink, red, and white frosting. Rhys watches in amazement and only gets a little offended when she tells him he sucks at decorating.

“Well,” Rhys says, holding up a frosted cookie. “Before you completely tear me apart, remember you wouldn’t have these delicious cookies to decorate without me.”

Feyre gives him a begrudging look. She knows he’s right.

“Go on,” he waves the cookie. “Try one.”

The groan that escapes Feyre heats Rhys’s blood. “Fuck, I could kiss you right now.”

Rhys’s laugh is nervous. His gaze catches on the frosting on her lip. Before he can think better of it, Rhys reaches out and swipes away the icing with his thumb. Feyre’s mouth falls open with the contact, and Rhys realizes his mistake, jerks his hand away from her with a blush.

At the last second, she grabs his hand, bringing his thumb back to her mouth. Rhys’s mouth goes dry when she licks the frosting from the pad of his thumb; his eyes are locked on her lips.

There’s still a bit of frosting on her mouth; Rhys leans in quickly before he can change his mind. He licks at the corner of her mouth, kisses her bottom lip. Feyre gasps at the contact, tilting her head and locking her lips with his for another.

The kiss turns hot and needy quickly. Feyre opens her mouth to him, and Rhys groans at the feeling of her tongue on his. Feyre hums, reaching out to play with Rhys’s hair. To think they were fighting with each other a matter of hours ago.

The front door opens and slams shut with a bang. The pair break apart in surprise, and Rhys’s cousin appears in the doorway, breathing in deeply the smell of cookies.

“Shit! Something smells good!” Mor beams, even if she seems a little surprised to see both of them together.

“Cookies!” Mor cheers as Feyre hands her a plate of cookies. “Rhys makes the best cookies!”

“Yeah, he’s not so bad,” Feyre says, sending Rhys a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know I wrote this, but I’d like to know what idiot stood up one of the IC. I’m just sayin’.


End file.
